


What Lies Before Us

by ravenwyck, SqueezeBabe



Category: Original Work
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Fantasy, M/M, Magic, Magic-Users, Magical Tattoos, Secrets, Slow Build, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-14
Updated: 2018-05-15
Packaged: 2019-05-06 21:06:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14656242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravenwyck/pseuds/ravenwyck, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SqueezeBabe/pseuds/SqueezeBabe
Summary: Rhys was raised by The Church, taught to understand that all magic is evil, and trained to hunt it down in all it's forms for the good of the world. He is a Forerunner, a spy sent to root out this evil in secret.Finn is a druid, the last of an ancient bloodline. His family has lived in peaceful secrecy for generations, far from the influence of The Church.When a battle leaves Rhys barely clutching to life, will Finn be able to save him?Will he regret it if he does?





	1. Rhys

**Author's Note:**

> While we always hope that people will read and enjoy our work (and we always appreciate nice comments), please understand that this is a personal and ever evolving collaborative project between Squeezebabe and ravenwyck. We brought it to AO3 because we needed a stable platform to post to.
> 
> Primary character perspective will switch between chapters as will primary authorship.  
> Tags and warnings will increase as the need arises. The explicit content warning may not apply when you begin reading this story, but we wanted to be fair to potential readers about our ultimate intentions.
> 
> In this instance, those with squeamish constitutions or a heavy preference for trigger warnings should consider other works.
> 
> We thank you for your consideration and understanding.  
> Please, come again.

_West._

It was getting hard to think, but he could remember that much.

_He had to go west. He couldn’t use magic, at any cost. If he stopped, he would die here in the woods and no one would ever even know._

The man paused. Birdsong and the whisper of branches rustling in the breeze filtered past the sounds of his heavy breathing. The morning air was chill, but droplets of sweat formed on his brow and his chestnut hair was damp with perspiration. The fog over his brain thinned for a moment and he spent the time dwelling on that last thought.

It was ridiculous to die of an infection from such a small wound. He was not some heathen, to slather mud on the thing and hope for the favor of the gods. He’d cleaned it properly and even worked his way through his small stock of wound salve. There should have never been an infection. The tall man’s back straightened in proud frustration. The sharp twinge that responded from the small but swollen gash on his right side reminded him why he’d been slouched in the first place. With a begrudging chuckle that almost ended in another coughing fit, the man admitted to himself that his indignance did not, in fact, change the reality of the situation.

The, apparently unnatural, infection was killing him. There was nothing he could do to stop it. He couldn’t remember when or why he had focused so strongly on the westernly direction that he’d gone so far as to abandon the road. But the road had been a long and winding thing, he’d doubled back as much as he’d traveled forward. And by the time he’d actually become aware that he’d abandoned the road, the constant ache in his side decided that finding his way back to it was an ordeal he wasn’t prepared for. He couldn’t stop, he couldn’t go back, so he just kept walking.

His slate eyes tilted up to take in the golden beams of sunlight peeking through the thick canopy of leaves. The man turned, seeking to reestablish his position based on the sun. The careless motion sent a wave of nausea rolling through his body. His unnaturally pale hand reached out to steady itself on the thick trunk of a nearby tree. Fingers once thought nimble failed to find traction as they slipped past the moss covered bark. Without the tree’s anchoring weight, the lean muscles gave in to the fatigue and disorientation as the man tumbled to the ground like an ill-balanced toy. He had only the time to think that the ground was soft and cool and solid before the blackness took him again.

_...In the clearing, stood the remnants of an old stone building; perhaps a tower long lost to the ages. Only a half buried floor and a corner of wall, half a man tall, well weathered and nearly grown over with moss and vine, stood testament to the fact that any structure once stood there at all. Blood. The smell filled Rhys’ nostrils, sickening in its intensity. Rhys inched closer through the undergrowth. In the center of the ruin a fire blazed, bathing the nearby stones in macabre light._

_...Stocky, grizzled looking creatures danced in the ruins. They had the faces of men, if old and malformed. But, there was no mistaking the red glow in their eyes or their crude taloned hands. He counted five of them, each wearing armored boots on their feet and pointed red caps that seemed to drip some viscous fluid on their heads but little else in between. Two of the creatures appeared to be fighting over something. Rhys strained to catch the words, until he realised they were fighting over an arm, a child’s arm. With frightening clarity, his eyes fixed on the details around the creatures. Bodies. Parts of bodies. Surely more than the small camp he’d found in tatters could account for. And blood. The demonic cast on the stones was not a trick of the light. It was blood. Blood covered every inch of exposed stone._

_...The fight for the child’s arm was a quick and vicious one, flashes of teeth and claws while the other huddled around growling in some guttural dialect. As he watched in horror, the victor raised its prize above its head and squeezed, wringing the arm like a wet rag. Even at his distance, Rhys could hear the bones pop under the intense strength as blood oozed out onto the creature’s already soaked cap. He’d known he was stalking evil when he’d followed the trail. But, he hadn’t been prepared for this..._

_...Running. Rhys had been so fixated on the grisly scene, he hadn’t realized there was a sixth monster, lurking in the shadow of the wall, it’s hands buried in the entrails of an unlucky traveler, until it had spotted him and sounded an alert. It was too many to face at once, especially without his magic. He’d run. His lungs hurt. He’d been running for several minutes. He should have left the short-legged, heavy-footed creatures far behind, but the clatter of iron boots was getting closer. No choice._

_...The first two kills had been easy. They hadn’t expected him to stop and face them. With his two small, curved handaxes he’d gutted them both before they realized they should stop running. A third demon stabbed at him with the iron pike they each carried. Rhys dodged, then releasing one axe to hang from it’s wrist strap, used the long pole of the enemy’s weapon to yank the creature into the reach of his other axe. The last three joined the fray together. The sixth monster, Rhys now noticed, appeared to be wearing a vest of some sort, stained with blood and things he had no wish to guess about and torn in places beyond repair. It shouted at the other two, who then started to flank him. The leader then. Rhys exploded forward, attempting to blitz the vest wearing demon before it’s minions could surround him. As he charged, a pike stabbed at him from the left. Shifting his balance without losing his stride, Rhys avoided the incoming blow, but turned almost too slowly to escape the pole wielded by the leader. It flicked past his right side as Rhys finished propelling himself into the leader’s space. His pike forgotten, the monster attacked with tooth and claw. It’s mouth dripped with spittle as it grunted what could only be vile insults or even more vile promises of his death. Spinning behind the foul beast, Rhys’ wickedly sharp axes sliced at the bend of it’s legs, dropping it to it’s knees in time to use it’s body as a shield against the pikes of it’s witless allies. The one on the right was closer, Rhys went for it next. Whatever the demons were, they did not appear to be used to losing. It seemed startled by the death of it’s leader and he used the distraction to his advantage to close the gap between them. As the body of it’s last ally hit the earth, the remaining creature seemed to lose his taste for battle. It’s rusted pike hit the ground as it turned to run. But, blood dripped in it’s wake and Rhys remembered the tiny arm that blood had come from and buried his axe in the monster’s fleeing back._

_...He’d buried the bodies, as carefully as he could. There were pieces he’d never found. He didn’t think about where they went. He’d burned the creatures, even their pikes (which he’d discovered were coated in some vile concoction of entrails and excrement), and especially their awful blood-wet hats. He’d even salted the ruined stones and said what prayers he could. He was certainly no priest, but it seemed better than nothing. It was long work and only when he’d finished did Rhys finally find the stream he’d originally been searching for. Only while cleaning the blood and death from his clothes did he finally notice that the leader hadn’t missed entirely. It was only a graze, thankfully. A serious wound could be deadly when travelling alone in the wilderness. Only a graze…_

Rhys woke shivering, his body in an unnatural heap on the forest floor. Looking around, he frowned. The shadows around him had shifted, stretched as the sun made it’s path through the sky; late afternoon. So, he’d been unconscious for a few hours, at least. Hopefully, this wasn’t the next day. But, the sun was still up, regardless, so no reason for shivering. Well, no reason except the fever. The fever caused by the infection that was killing him. Right, time to get up. It took a few tries, his body was sluggish and slow to respond. Rhy refused to look at the ‘scratch’ on his side. His last view of the swollen, puffy thing with it’s dark angry lines reaching like tendrils towards his heart told him that looking again wouldn’t help his state of mind any.

_West._

It took time to get his feet back under him. The terrain was getting more difficult to manage with his increasingly unsteady feet. Finally, as the sun began to fall, he conceded to cutting a branch from a nearby tree for a walking stick. What should have been a simple task was arduous work that ate away at what little energy he could spare. Rhys accepted that he was delirious when he resorted to begging the tree to understand his need and stop being so difficult. Just as it was a trick of his delirium that made him feel that the job was easier after he did so.

In the full darkness of the thick forest, Rhys picked, stumbled, and trudged his way through the night, stopping only to catch his breath. At this point, sleep would bring death, he was sure of it. He couldn’t even risk sitting for rest. The exhaustion lay too heavily on his body and he couldn’t trust his own constitution.

Movement is life. Father Argyle had said so once. He’d been quoting something, Rhys couldn’t remember what. Father Argyle was an insufferably boring man and it had always been difficult to pay attention to his lectures. But, Rhys remembered that line. It seemed pertinent now. Something he could work with, at least. He was going to die, that was obvious now. But, he at least wasn’t going to lie down and wait for it to happen.

The chirps of the morning’s first birds was interrupted by the latest round nausea forcing what little food Rhys had managed to get down a few hours before to come back back up. He swayed in the resulting lightheadedness, barely managing to fall on a patch of leaves undefiled by his own vomit.

He had been the one to insist that he be allowed to take this trip. This ignoble death was perhaps the punishment for his willfulness. They hadn’t wanted to let him go. Perhaps they had been right to try to stop him. Rhys grimaced and fought to think past the exhaustion. No, this was right. He’d known it when he argued to be allowed to leave on his own. And even if he did die, his death would be the last at those creatures hands. No more travellers had to suffer at the hands of those cruel monsters, no more families, no more children. Rhys remembered the three tiny torn up bodies he’d buried what felt like a lifetime ago as he forced his walking stick into the ground to leverage himself back up.

It was a losing battle. With hands bloody and abraded from falling and legs battered by both undergrowth and impact, Rhys fought his body as he tried to cover more ground. As the first strips of dawn peeked over the horizon, he fell for the last time. The cold wetness of the dew coated leaves felt sinful against the exposed bits of his overheated skin. It was good to appreciate the little things. Staring up at the canopy, he took stock of the damage. His side was wet in a way that had nothing do with morning condensation. He’d split the wound, he wasn’t sure if it was pus or blood. It was too much effort to look. The smell said pus. Then again, if he trusted the smell, he might think he was already dead. He considered the thought for a moment, before rolling to his stomach to drag himself a few more inches forward, away from the rising of the sun. The edges of his vision were dark and blurred. His breath came in short, heavy pants as he struggled with the effort of his own weight. Soon, he couldn’t even remember why he was trying to move in the first place. When unconsciousness came for the last time he hardly noticed.


	2. Finn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little forest cat tells Finn some unsettling news.

The forest was quiet, the wind sighing softly through the trees, the patterns of dappled light changing as the leaves twisted and moved with the breeze. The air was cool against his sweat dampened skin as he worked. He’d just killed a deer; a single shot straight through the heart to ensure the animal was dispatched quickly and painlessly, a task not taken lightly given his affinity for nature. He had held off as long as possible but the meat was needed, and he would ensure that none of the animal would go to waste. He’d just finished casting the necessary runes to return the animal’s life force back to the forest, drawing the symbols meticulously into the soft earth. He stood, brushing the damp leaves from his clothing, and cast his gaze about the forest; still quiet apart from the sounds of nature. He nodded to himself and sniffed the air, he was deep enough into the forest that the effects of his magic wouldn’t be seen by anyone, the only witness to his ritual would be the forest itself.

Taking the wickedly curved blade from his belt, he began to chant, the runes in the earth started to flicker with a pale green light. He could feel the marks on his body begin to move, like tendrils snaking over his skin and his eyes began to glow with the same green light. At the appropriate moment he dropped to his knees and leaned forward, slicing into the neck of the deer and severing the artery. Blood gushed forth, soaking into the already damp ground, and the ruins flickered brightly for a moment, before fading into nothingness. The ritual was done.

He wiped the blade on the earth and paused for a moment to gather himself. The ritual not only gave thanks to the entity that was the forest, for all that it supported, but it also ensured that he didn’t have to bleed the animal when he got back to his cottage and lessened the weight that he'd eventually have to carry. Picking up the knife once more he made a cut along the belly of the animal, reaching into the abdominal cavity to pull out the organs. There were certain rituals that would need to be carried out, the animal had given its life so that he may continue to live, nature was a powerful force and it was best to keep it appeased as much as possible. He paused for a moment, a small smile played across his lips. Nature was neither good nor evil, it just was, but as long as he adhered to the rituals, he felt that he was doing the right thing; his soul wouldn't be stained, and when it came time to go back to the earth he could do so with a clear conscience.

He worked quickly, setting aside the offal and wrapping the deer in a tough hide so that when he dragged it through the forest back to where his destrier would be, it didn’t get damaged or dirty. He snorted and wiped the sweat from his face, his horse was one of the biggest he’d seen; over six foot at the withers, however, his constitution was delicate and skittish, unable to handle blood or dead things. Sure he was strong; being a hunter granted one with the strength necessary, but he was not quite strong enough to carry a full grown deer ten miles back to his hut.

There was a rustling of leaves, possibly caused by the breath of wind that he felt; experience told him otherwise. “I know you’re there…” he called out softly.

There was a delicate snort, felt rather than heard. ” _You only heard me because I let you._ ”

The corners of his lips twitched into an almost smile, “You only came because there was an easy meal for you.”

” _Hunger can make anyone bow their head if it’s strong enough.”_ The shadows in the gloom shifted for a moment revealing a small cat, his sleek coat brown with dappled markings, making him almost impossible to see if he sat still. Large green eyes blinked slowly as he padded forward, sniffing the air as he went. _“Food is harder to find since the small humans came. They smell like things that have been dead for days and they’ve eaten all the rabbits and rodents and chased away everything else_."

The man tilted his head towards the pile of offal, “You’re more than welcome to help yourself, I have no need for entrails this time around, and I’d feel bad if it went to waste.” He’d almost finished wrapping the deer; he was making a makeshift harness in which to drag the animal back, fitting his arms through the loops and securing the weight evenly across his body.

The cat had already made short work of the scraps, and was licking a paw, casually cleaning it’s face. “ _Shouldn’t the mountain horse be here helping_?" There was a disdainful air around the comment.

He wiped the sweat from his face and began the walk back to where said horse would be, the leather straps creaking slightly under the weight. “You know the horse doesn’t like to be around when I hunt, the smell of blood upsets him.”

The cat swished its tail and bounded off in front of him and disappeared into the undergrowth, leaving behind the feeling of exasperation. The man shook his head at the wilful animal, wondering for the upteenth time why the forest cat had taken an interest in him. The animal wasn’t his pet, rather, it was more like an acquaintance. A small inquisitive kitten had taken to observing him, probably being opportunistic for the free meal that it would get after a hunt. He’d talk to it, not expecting a response in return, though happy enough for the company. He didn’t know when he’d “heard” the cat, but it had seemed natural at the time. When he’d asked the animal about it, it had blinked its solemn green eyes and had simply said “I _always answered, it’s you who finally listened"_

Dragging the deer felt like it was slow going, though he knew he was making good progress;he’d reach his horse within a few hours. He’d then be able to have the horse drag the deer on a makeshift litter, and he’d be home in good time after that. He stopped for a small rest; checking the straps and the carcass for damage, and using the time to brush the sweat from his eyes. He was sure that he’d been dragging the deer for roughly an hour; it was probably nearing noon, and whilst the forest was cooler, the air was more humid, making him sweat more.

The forest was still relatively quiet, almost eerie feeling. He shook his head; it was to be expected, he was making enough noise to scare everything away. He listened again. Nothing but the sound of the wind through the trees and the crunch of movement through the undergrowth. He froze. It sounded like something was approaching, something large and heavy. He clenched his jaw against the feeling of the fine hairs on the back of his neck standing up. If it was something like a bear, he’d leave the deer behind; it wasn’t worth the risk of injury to stand his ground. His hand went to the knife in his belt. He’d cut the straps and run…

“ _Even day old kittens have more forest sense than you._ ”

A relieved smile crossed his face as the cat appeared from the shadows once more. There would hardly be anything dangerous lumbering towards him if the cat was showing itself. There was a loud animal snort; he looked through the trees to see his horse picking its way through the brush. “You went and got Goliath?”

The cat turned up his nose and licked a paw, “ _I did no such thing._ ”

The horse approached warily, “The tiny cat said you needed help…”The horse tossed its head, nostrils flaring, “ _...don't want to carry the dead thing… but you were taking too long and the cat said..._ "

There was a hiss from the cat and an angry swish of the tail, “ _I was getting to that!_ ”

He looked at the animals and arched an eyebrow, “Getting to what exactly?”

The cat swished his tail again and flattened his ears. “ _There’s a man near where the small humans are. He smells the same as you, but different. He’s been attacked by the small humans and left to die. He smells like a dead thing that’s been left for days and yet he was still breathing._ ”

The man felt his blood run a little cold, “You’re saying that there’s a man, lying somewhere, dying even, and you’re only just telling me this now? How long has he been there?!” He didn’t want to bring up that the animals concept of time was not quite the same as his; the man could have been discovered by the cat a week ago, and could already be dead by now.

The cat flattened his ears further and hissed “ _I’m telling you now! I found him during the last hunting time; came straight for you, not stopping for food._ ”

The man was already untangling himself from the leather straps holding the deer carcass, calling the horse to come closer, “You’re going to have to carry this deer, and this mystery man. Are you sure you’ll be strong enough to do that?” He knew he was appealing to the horse’s pride; of course the beast would be able to carry the weight of two grown men, maybe even three for the trip back.

The horse snorted and side-stepped away from the deer, “ _Of course I’m_ strong _enough. I can carry a knight dressed for battle!_ ”

“Good, then come closer so I can settle this over your back, and I promise you that there will be a whole bag of apples for you when we make it back home.” It was an appeal to the horses greed; which worked as the horse stayed still long enough for him to lift the carcass and settle it over the horse's hindquarters like an overloaded saddlebag. He swung himself up onto Goliath’s back and called for the cat to join him, “You’ll need to show me where this man is, and hopefully we can get to him before he gets eaten by something.”

The cat made himself comfortable perched on top of the deer, “ _Nothing will eat him, he smells too bad for that._ ”

 

***

 

“Are you sure that it’s this way?” The druid peered into the gloom of the forest, not sensing anything other than the trees. They had been travelling for some time, it was hard to see the position of the sun through the trees and the horse’s speed was not consistent. Did the horse move faster than the cat? It wasn’t that he didn’t trust that forest cat, but the way he was leading them was not much of a straight line. The cat flattened his ears and flicked his tail in irritation, “ _ The giant horse cannot go where small cats can! _ ” he hissed, tail lashing against the saddle, “ _ I’m surprised that even YOU can’t smell where to go! _ ” The horse bobbed his large head in agreement, ” _ This is the right way, the smell is getting stronger… _ ”

The man wondered, for the umpteenth time, whether they were going to make it in time. He didn’t have the amazing sense of smell that the animals had, but had he detected the faint whiff of putrefaction in the air or was it just wishful thinking on his part in response to the superior olfactory senses of his companions? If the man was as bad smelling as his companions claimed, wouldn’t that mean he was dead already? How could something that smelt “so bad” still be alive? Did the forest cat have it wrong after all?

The trio continued to make their way through the gloom of the forest, quiet except for the sounds of the occasional bird and the horse picking his way through the dense undergrowth. The trees were beginning to thin out as they got closer to the mountainous terrain, allowing the horse more room to move. “ _ This is near where the small humans have taken over, killing everything that is close enough. They’re lazy, not travelling more than a few hunting times away from the caves, but they are more vicious than a head sick wolf, killing because they like it, not because they are hungry. _ ”

The breeze was coming from behind them and he noticed it playing gently with the horse’s mane, teasing and twisting the long strands before moving on to rustle the dead leaves on the ground in front of them. His mother had told him stories of the wind; how it could be capricious in its behaviour. One moment it could be gentle and cooling and then the next howling and destructive, but as his mother oft told him, _ it always carries a message for those who are listening _ .

They paused, the wind ceasing for that moment. The silence was an oppressive force; the hairs on the back of his neck beginning to prick in response to the feeling that something was watching, or waiting.

The smell hit his nostrils, nearly causing him to gag. The horse sneezed, violently shaking his head and the cat pawed his own face in disgust. The wind had shifted and now was coming at them, bringing with it the smell the animals had been following. It was the smell of rotting flesh, of things dead and diseased. Not even plague victims had smelled as putrid as this! “Porvata have mercy! That’s the smell of something that has been dead for days! In the hot sun no less!” The druid coughed a few times, the smell of decay was persistent in trying to choke him. They had to find the body and at the very least, bury what was left of it. 

“ _ I told you he smelled bad _ .” The forest cat only sounded a little smug “ _ He is not dead, somehow he still lives. _ ”

The horse quickened its pace, though the man could feel the reluctance through the animal's flesh. The cat had said this man was still alive, and the horse was taking him at his word. “How can you tell he’s still alive?” he asked the cat. There was a swish of a tail and a flicking of an ear, “ _ I can hear him breathing. _ ”

The man’s body was lying face down in the damp leaf litter than made up much of the forest floor, looking very much dead except for the nearly imperceptible movement of his breathing which rasped against the leaves that were pressed up against his face. 

The druid scrambled off the horse, taking a few steps towards the body on the ground. He swallowed hard against the bile that rose in his throat. The smell was pungent, far worse than what it should be. He knelt beside the unconscious man and began to examine him. The man appeared to be relatively unscathed; a few small cuts and bruises, no broken bones… the druid rolled the man over and the source of the smell became apparent. The gaping wound was certainly infected, weeping and angry, a rainbow of colours, the flesh angry and red, tinged purple in some places. The pus equal amounts of yellow and green and oozing from the wound. “It shouldn’t be this bad…” he muttered to himself, hurrying back to the horse and going through the saddlebag for what passed as his aid kit. 

Taking a square of soft leather, he unstoppered a vial of clear liquid, pouring half onto the square, and began to clean the wound, pouring the other half of the vial over the angry flesh as he wiped away most of the muck. The man mumbled and began to shiver violently, the contractions pushing even more of the foul liquid out of the hole in his side.

“I really don’t think he’s going to make it back home…” the druid was mostly talking to himself , even if the cat and the horse could understand him, they couldn’t really do anything to help… “Goliath, I’m going to need your help if this man is going to survive. I don’t have the right herbs in my bag, this wound isn’t like anything i’ve seen before.” The tincture he had used to clean the wound with should have dissolved most of the pus and calmed the infection, but the appearance hadn’t changed much. There was something else at play. “I think he’s been poisoned somehow, this wound is not an ordinary cut. For starters, it shouldn’t smell this bad…” 

“ _ The small humans, their kills often smell the same, the creatures die quickly and in much pain _ .” The cat was sitting quietly nearby, cleaning itself. The druid frowned to himself, he didn’t have the time to question the cat right now, and regardless of any information he got from the animal, he didn’t have the appropriate medicines to do anything other than continue cleaning the wound and trying to calm the infection. The unconscious man’s breathing began to labour; he had to act quickly or else he’d be digging a grave.

He called the horse to come closer, “You’re going to keep my patient alive Goliath, your heart will beat for his until we can all get home.” The horse pawed the ground, clearly not liking the explanation. “Don’t worry, it’s not going to hurt, if everything goes the way it should, all he should have when he wakes up is a residual fondness for oats…” He pressed his hand against the wound until blood seeped over his fingers. He drew a rune symbol on the man’s chest, and getting the horse to kneel down next to them, drew the same symbol on his chest too. He placed each of his hands over the symbols, effectively linking them together with his body.

Now came the tricky part as far as he was concerned. Whilst he knew the magic in theory, he hadn’t actually performed this particular ritual before. If successful, the horse would keep the man alive, the animal would breathe for the man, his heart would beat in time with the horse’s. If left too long, the bond would be irreversible, forever tying the man to the horse. The druid hoped that it wouldn’t come down to that, and that he would have all the appropriate herbs and potions back at his home to save the man. 

The druid closed his eyes and began to chant. The marks on his body began to glow and writhe, the green light muted by his clothes. He opened his eyes; they too had begun to glow with the same green light as he channelled more of his power into the ritual. The runes under his hands began to glow, slowly getting brighter. There was a bright flash of green; the horse whinnied in fear. The man writhed under his hand, but thankfully his eyes remained closed.

It was done.

The man’s breathing steadied. It was no longer laboured, but strong and deep… and in time with the horses. The druid breathed a small sigh of relief. Now all he had to do was get the man onto the horse and then they could all go home.

The druid wasn’t a small man, but the unconscious stranger was bigger again. Lifting him up from under the arms, the druid half carried, half dragged the stranger to drape his body over the saddle. “Easy Goliath, just get up as smoothly as you can.” The druid patted the horse on his withers and coaxed the animal to stand up. “I’m just going to tie him down so that he doesn’t slide off once we get going; I’m going to need you to get as back home as quick as you can.” 

The druid swung himself up behind the body, getting a good grip on the man’s belt to keep him from moving too much. He tightened his thighs around the horse and used his other hand to steady himself on the saddle as he urged the animal forward and back into the forest. The horse set off at a smooth ground-eating trot, picking his way through the trees, the cat following behind. The druid wasn’t sure how long the journey would take to get back home, an hour at least, maybe less, maybe more. He no longer had to worry about the stranger dying, so perhaps it was more important that the journey be calm and go smoothly. He didn’t want to push the horse too much, lest there be ill effects on his new patient.

Before long, the thatched roof of his cottage came into view. In his opinion, the building was a little too large to be called a cottage, but it was old and rustic-looking, so it seemed to make sense. The stone dwelling was his home and had been the home for his family for as long as he could remember. He knew it had belonged to his grandparents, and no doubt to their grandparents as well; the stone walls had kept his family safe for generations and contained all the books and scrolls they had collected over the years. Next to the cottage was a small wooden barn where Goliath took shelter, and behind both structures was the druid’s garden where he grew all manner of plants for the purposes of creating the various herbal remedies and potions he used.  

Getting the unconscious man inside was no mean feat, but the druid managed to get him laid out on his sleeping roll in front of the fire. He set down a large bowl of water to warm in front of the fire and knelt on the floor to looked over his new patient. “I hope you’re not too attached to these clothes..” he muttered as he began to slice the dirty, and in some places, tattered, material away from the man’s body, keeping as close to the seams as possible; it was always possible that the pieces could be salvaged later on.

Taking a soft cloth and wetting it in the bowl of now warm water, he began to wipe the body down, cleaning the dirt and grime from the skin. As he went, he examined the unconscious stranger for further injuries; just a few bruises and scratches, a scar or two. The man was muscled, not as heavy set as the knights from the castle; more lithe than brawny, but it was obvious the man had not eaten for a few days.  _ Just how long has he been injured for... _ the druid thought to himself. The wound, now that it was clean, wasn’t as bad as it had first appeared, however, the flesh around the edges was tinged with black, and the smell coming from it was corpse-like. 

The druid tutted to himself. As he’d first suspected, the wound was not natural. Sure, the knife or sword that had pierced the skin was natural enough, but the accelerated necrosis was not. It was no ordinary infection caused by dirt; it was like someone had rubbed filth into the wound, no, worse than that… 

_ Poison _ .

The druid shook his head, there wasn’t a lot he could do antidote-wise unless he knew exactly what the man had been poisoned with. It was amazing enough that he was still alive, so perhaps the druid didn’t quite need the exact antidote, just dose the man up with herbs and potions to strengthen him and combat the symptoms, and let his constitution ride out the effects. It certainly wasn’t a responsible way of looking after his patient, but the druid couldn’t rely on the cat to give him an accurate description of the “small humans”, and even if he did figure out what the poison was, there was no guarantee that he had the antidote on hand, or that he would be able to find the right plant. 

He would leave the unconscious man “connected” to the horse until he’d finished preparing the various medicines and administered them, after that, once the man was out of immediate danger, he would sever the connection and leave the man to fend for himself. He couldn't risk leaving the two connected to each other longer than absolutely necessary; he had no idea what kind of effects that prolonged exposure would have on either of them. 

The druid eased himself from the floor and began gathering the necessary things; mortar and pestle to grind the various herbs, cups and jars to measure liquids, and a sipping spoon to administer the medicine to his patient. Medicine was the most effective when fresh, slowly losing potency over time. If he wanted his patient to have the best chance of fighting the poison, the medicine had to be as strong as he could make it… without killing him of course.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Thank you for reading my chapter! As always, if you like it, please let us know. :)


	3. Rhys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feverish dreams of a dying man

The first thing he noticed was  _ warmth _ , teasing at the edges of the cold darkness, just out of reach. He’d been cold for so long. He sought out that warmth, yearned for it; an infant drawn to its mother’s milk. Rhys knew if only he could reach it, he would find salvation. He couldn’t move, incapable of even the slightest struggle. His mind lashed out, but he had no body in this empty blackness. Was this what death was like for those chosen to bear the sin of magic, an eternity spent just outside the sweet grace of the Goddess? He’d known there would be no peaceful afterlife waiting for him. He’d taken his first Oath when he was old enough to get through the words. But, the nothingness was somehow worse than all the hells he had imagined for himself. Stilling the panic, he concentrated on that warmth again. His mind flashed with images, smells, sounds.

_ The forest. Beautiful and peaceful, yet almost ominous in it’s quiet power.  _

_ Herbs. Fresh and dried. Pungent yet mingled with the subtle scents of earth and rain. _

_ And behind it all, a slow, steady beating sound. More a feeling than a sound.  _

Rhys’ attention narrowed to just that pulsing feeling. 

_ The smell of grass, the sensation of running through spring fields, and the taste of… apples? _

The throbbing built to a roar in his ears, not overwhelming, but insistent, like the warmth he could feel now like a caress all around him. He accepted it, pulling it in, even as it pulled at him. 

When the darkness took him again, the feeling remained.

 

***

 

_ “Rhys! Rhys where are you?” The voice which called was soft and melodic, but urgent. _

_ From his perch high in the heavy foliage of a tree, the young boy almost giggled. She wouldn’t find him. She never did. Everyone thought he was too young for climbing.  _

_ People were coming and everyone was acting weird and they wouldn’t let him meet anyone. He was being sent off for the day. It wasn’t fair and he wouldn’t go. His thoughts were interrupted by a scream, the cry of an alarm. Turning, he could see smoke rising over the orchard canopy. Home. _

_ The woman below responded to the cry as well. Her voice now frantic as she continued to search for the hidden boy. He’d opened his mouth to call out, to ask what had happened, to hurry back to make sure everyone was alright. The sound of hoofbeats in the distance stopped him in his tracks. As if in slow motion, the boy watched. The horseman’s arm rose high in the air, a spear formed of fire appeared in his hand. The woman’s white dress seemed to flutter as she spun to take in the sight of the incoming horseman. Though his face was hidden in the deep recesses of his cowl, there was no mistaking the menace that emanated from him. She tried to run, it was already too late. Rhy could feel the thunk in his own body as the spear sank between her shoulder blades. Her body fell at the foot of his hiding place as the murderous man dismounted and kicked her over to examine her face. _

_ Tears streamed silently from Rhys’ cherubic face, but he bit deep into his own lip and refused to cry out. The once melodic voice gurgled out, spilling blood in its wake. Her eyes widened looking up past her attacker. For the first time, she had found him. But, she turned her gaze quickly and Rhys battled his terror and helpless rage as he stayed riveted to the his spot. He could hear the venomous tone of the murderous stranger as he spoke to the woman at his feet, but the words were lost to the gasping sounds that beat against Rhys’ ears as the man slowly choked the remaining life out the woman who’d always seen to his care. _

 

***

 

_ His lungs burned. Smoke stung his eyes. But, he acknowledged these things only distantly.  _

_ Fire. _

_ The Great Cathedral was burning.  _

_ In the way of dreams, Rhys watched himself stride indifferently through the chaos of rubble and bodies, men and women he knew, some he had considered family.  He made his way through the maze of rooms and corridors with the kind of ease that only comes from years of habitation. No one challenged his course. Survivors looked on him with terror and fled. _

_ He was close now. The Inner Sanctum.  _

_ Turning a corner, he found himself staring down the edge of a dagger. Fear etched a boy’s face in a grim parody of his stance, defiantly blocking Rhys’ path. His bloodied gray robes hung from a frame that couldn’t have seen more then ten years. Beneath a layer of grime and ash, his short, mussed hair made the kid look even younger. A neophyte priest then, not even a squire. _

_ A simple backhand was all it took to send the boy flying, the dagger clattering uselessly to the floor. He rose unsteadily, glancing only momentarily at the lost knife before making a break for the next hall. _

_ Rhys cried in helpless silent horror as he watched himself summon a flaming spear. Desperately, he prayed to the Goddess to end this nightmare. He poured his will into making the man who was and was not him stop. But, around the ash that scorched his tongue he could taste the edge of blood lust. As the spear tore through the tiny body, Rhys wasn’t sure if the scream that ripped through his mind was the boy’s or his own, but it roared endlessly through him in waves of despair until at last he could take it no longer and oblivion claimed him once again. _

 

***

  
  


_ Light, so much it was blinding. It burned through his tightly shut eyelids.  _

_ Bark bit into his palm where he held himself in perched in a tree.  _

_ It was too soon. He wasn’t ready for this nightmare again.  _

_ Even as the light faded, he kept his eyes screwed shut, as if by refusing to look he might rewind time and unmake that awful day. _

_ Rhys could hear a woman calling out to him, her voice soft, but melodic. Her tone spoke of an unfathomable patience, instead of the urgency that had echoed hundreds of times through his dreams, as if she could wait through eternity to for him to respond. His eyes popped open in shock at the change of script. _

_ The scene was different this time. This was not the orchard. The sky whirled in vivid shades of yellow and orange with subtle hints of purple and blue streaking through, like a watercolor sunset come to life. The tree felt warm beneath him. It’s branches were like nothing he’d seen before, as if a large and sprawling lightning bolt had streak toward the sky instead of from it, then solidified into something green and growing and pulsing with life. The bark seemed to glow even in the brightness of this strange world. It’s leaves shimmered with crystalline light.  _

_ The woman found him easily, as he somehow knew she would. Like a game they had played countless times where he had always picked the same spot, she turned a serene smile immediately up to his hiding form. Her white dress, shone with the purity of sunlight as it fluttered in an invisible breeze and his heart ached with the depths of love and sadness that pierced him from the endless pool of gold that was her eyes. _

_ His stomach twisted. He knew what came next. He could hear the hoofbeats approaching, somehow louder than they’d ever seemed before. _

_ The rider summoned his spear. But, the woman never tried to run, just continued to stare with those beautiful, tragic eyes. _

_ Not this time. He wouldn’t, Couldn’t let her die. He wasn’t a terrified, helpless child. Righteous rage filled him and he flexed his fists around the branches he’d been holding, only to find his twin axes instead. The tree surged in radiance in seeming resonance with his own burst of angry power. As Rhys launched himself at the hooded horseman the light overtook him and he was lost to the blindness once again. _

 

***

 

Consciousness was slow in coming. But, he knew he wasn’t dead. Death couldn’t possibly taste this bad, like spoiled meat or he’d been licking his own foul injury. As if thinking about it were all it had been when waiting for, the wound flared like a punch in the gut, forcing a pained groan from his lips. And yet, he felt, well not good certainly, but better than he had in… Just how long had he been out?   
Experimentally, Rhys shifted. The bed beneath him shifted under his weight. This was not the forest where he’d collapsed. One eye cracked open at a slit. A workbench scattered with herbs and tools placed against a simple wall could be seen by flickering of a dying fire nearby. A house then. Best case scenario, someone had dragged him to the local healer. Reflexively, He rolled quickly to his feet. It was a stupid move. His cut protested the sudden jerk. His head swam. His foot caught on something large and solid, hidden at his feet in the fire-softened darkness. His cry was equal parts pain and surprise as collapsed, barely managing to catch himself on each palm while his body tangled in the warm lump that now blinked up at him like mirror of what he imagined his own expression must be.

“Well, that didn’t go quite the way I planned,” Rhys groaned between labored breaths.

“Unless your plan was to fall on my face, I don’t think it did either.” The man beneath him had a strong, but soothing voice. His expression had softened and Rhys didn’t sense any malice in his tone. The shadows of exhaustion were clear on the man’s face but his piercing green eyes were mesmerizing in the shifting light. Rhys lost a few moments cataloguing the facets of green that twinkled up at him until the awkward shift of muscle beneath him pulled him from his reverie.   
“I’ve had worse plans,” He quipped, trying for a disarming grin but sure he landed closer to a grimace. 

“I can imagine.” The stranger chuckled, a sleep-roughened but good-natured sound. Rhys moved to roll gracefully off the blond trapped beneath him, but the effort sent a shower of sparking pain through his ribs and his head swam again. The stranger was instantly by his side. “Let me help you back into bed and let’s have another look at your injury.”

The last of his stamina spent on this fresh wave of suffering, Rhys didn’t bother to argue. He didn’t waste time wondering if he could trust the stranger with the green eyes. It was a bit too late for that. But, questions, he had plenty of those. Through the fog of his thoughts, Rhys struggled to ask at least the man’s name, but his tongue felt thick and useless in the wake of his exertion and he was reminded that his mouth was still full of the taste of rot and all he managed to croak out was a weak plea of “Water.”

Throat quenched, Rhys tried to resume his questions. But cradled in the scent of herbs, his mind drifted between half-remembered landscapes with magical trees and a strange craving for oats. The fresh application of salve soothed his raw skin, further lulling him towards the abyss. He was asleep before the stranger could finish dressing his wound. This time it was peaceful and, blessedly, without dreams.

**Author's Note:**

> "what lies behind us and what lies before us are tiny matters compared to what lies within us." - Ralph Waldo Emerson


End file.
